


Sidearms

by Detroitbydark



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Kidnapping, Life in the waste, No Furiosa, No Max, No wives, The Bullet Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detroitbydark/pseuds/Detroitbydark
Summary: He was dead now and she didn't know whether she should be happy or sad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of all over the place but I just started writing and this is what came out. the idea just kind of popped in my head as I was rewatching Fury Road for the thousandth time. This is completley unbetad and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> I see things at The Bullet Farm running with more military like precision than the other settlements. I'd love to see what ya'll thought about it. I hope you like it!

He called her Pistol. She'd had another name once, thousands of days past. It had been musical and rolled off the tongue like a bird taking flight. She didn't think about those things much anymore.

She was Pistol.

His Pistol. 

Her life would never be what it had been. Not ever again. 

She'd come from the clan Boheme. They'd been peaceful, or as peaceful as folk were able to be, they'd made it through the waste earning what they could entertaining at settlements. They were near happy. In the caravan every woman was mother, every man was father. She never was sure who bore her but she never questioned it either. As she grew she was taught the music makers. As a babe, she'd crashed her hands into drums and rattled tambourines. As she grew she learned the stringed git, practiced til her small fingers were well adorned with callouses from plucking the strings. She'd been praised for what the elders had called "perfect pitch" when she sang. When a war party had raided their camp one night it became clear it was both a blessing and a curse. Her family had been torn from her. Shots rang out. The flames of life were snuffed. She'd closed her eyes unable to witness the massacre. In her mind she liked to pretend that her brothers, fathers, and mothers were still out there playing in night.

Her purpose within The Bullet Farmer's fortress was often misunderstood. Brought in as a young girl, it had been assumed she was to be a wife. They thought he'd use her as a breeder such as the Immortan at the Citadel had with any full life girl he could find. Few people if any ever truly understood the Bullet Farmer. Kalishnakov. He had no use for the 'sins of the flesh', as he'd told her when she'd come of age. He would not be joining her in her bed chambers. Her job was to help him maintain appearances. Her job was to ease his tortured soul. His kind had been around when the Earth had gone sour. They'd caused the Guzz Wars. They'd taken part in the Wars for the Aquacola. They'd killed the world.

She'd sit on the floor near his desk, a word burger in hand, like a well healed dog waiting to be aknowledged. When the mood would suit him he'd clear his office of his sargents and captains and she'd sing for him songs she'd learned from her family or from the black discs he called "records". She'd watch his eyes flutter shut, the lines on his face would soften and she could almost see him as a he must have looked as a young man. Other times he'd ask her questions about the word burgers he'd have her read from his collection.

On rare ocassion he'd have her sing quietly while his top men were in the room as they planned an attack or discussed trade with the Citadel or Gast Town. Smith and Wesson, the look alike brothers who maintained the manufacturing of the munitions, would sink into the animal hide arm chairs. Their typical twitchy nature eased if only for a few moments. Remington, the Farmer's second in command, would watch her with a gaze she didn't understand. Her face would become hot and her heart would pound until she'd have to look anywhere but him. If Kalishnakov noticed he never said anything.

While she escaped the intimate torture, the rapes, that many or her sex knew as part of life she was not immune to brutality. While the Farmer would not use her carnally he expected her to perform whatever he asked and expected it to be executed perfectly. If she didn't he was not above corporal punishment. She'd been in his house 340 days when he ushered her into his private chambers and showed her an instrument taller than herself.

"A harp." He'd explained before he proceeded to play her a record of what it was to sound like. "You will learn to play this."

He'd left  her there in his inner sanctum surrounded by book shelves and paintings of lush green places that she had only ever dreamed about. She'd worked than for hours, until her fingers were red and tender trying to mimic the sounds she'd heard. When he'd returned and demanded she play it was no where near what he'd wanted. She'd been punished, lashed until black began to creep in the corner of her eyes. While he did it he spoke to her, explained what his expectaions were. His voice held no anger. He remained cool an detached. In control.

He liked to remind her that she was merely property. His to do with as he pleased. He could offer her up as tribute to Immortan Joe if he pleased. A threat that became all the more terrifying after he'd taken her to a "conference" at the Citadel. She'd seen the  haunted looks in the eyes of the half naked harrem of wives that sat huddled at his feet, the swollen belly of one prominently displayed for the visiting dignitaries. Kalishnakov had made it clear to the Immortan that she was HIS property and would not be available for his use. Remington ushered her back to their rig shortly after to await the short trip back to The Bullet Farm. He growled at any War Boy who'd had the balls to look at her and offered to share his ration of Aquacola with her.

Kalishnakov also seemed to find pleasure in reminding those around him that he held the power or life and death in his hands.

"You forget your place, young Remington!" he yelled at his most trusted soldier. Pistol had paid little attention as the voices had become louder. It was not uncommon for heated discussions to take place in the "war room". It wasn't until her name was sharply barked that her spine straightened.

"Pistol. Here. Now." had her jumping to her feet and rushing the The Bullet Farmer's side.

"Sir?" she questioned quietly keeping her eyes down. She could hear a cold smile in his voice as he spoke.

"Now see?" he questioned, not to her but to the man across the room. "My little Pistol knows how to take an order. Don't you , sweet girl?" he finally asked her as his hand came up to stroke her lower back in a mock sign of affection. She thought she heard a noise come from Remingtons direction but that was that wasn't her concern right now.

"Sir. Yes sir." she responded quietly.

"Now, dear girl, I want you to look at this soldier and tell him what you would do if I told you to sleep in the barracks tonight." Pistol looked up from the Bullet Farmer's cruel smile to Remington's grim one. His jaw twitched as her bottome lip began to quiver.

"I would follow your orders sir."

Remington snapped, "They would tear he apart down there! She'd be used up six way from Suns Day!"

Kalishnakov stood from his chair at this, slamming his fist into the wooden desk top. "And I would do it to, you insubordinate little smeg, if it meant teaching someone a lesson!" he growled, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. The fight seemed to drain from the young commander who finaly conceeded.

"Sir. Yes Sir."

"Thats what I thought." the old man smiled cruelly, "dismissed."

She never did end up in the barracks.

 

"You know why I call you Pistol?" He'd asked her recently. A tiredness had sunk into his voice. Her fingers danced over the harpds stirngs. The lamp in the corner cast shadows across his face as he lay in his bed. His cheeks looked more sunken, his skin sallow, and for the first time he looked old and feeble.

"No Sir." she answered quietly as she continued to weave notes into melodies.

His eyes fluttered closed and his breathing began to slow. for a moment she thought he'd fallen asleep until he finally spoke, "every man aught to keep to keep a hidden weapon at their side. Something that makes them feel powerful even when they're not." He'd fallen asleep than leaving her with more questions than she'd started with.

 

He was dead now. That's what the scouts had reported back. As she sat on the rug in his chambers  watching, if not hearing, the record player in front of her skip she wasn't sure if she should be happy or sad.


End file.
